Abini Chukwu

I remember the first time I climbed behind the wheel of my own keke. It was a day in March 2019, blistering hot, and Lagos, Nigeria, buzzed with its usual madness. Cars, buses, and humans crowded every inch of Oworonshoki's streets, and here I was—a woman ready to join the men behind the wheel. Some looked at me with amusement, others with disdain, but I didn't care. I had mouths to feed.

I'm 31 now, with two boys to raise, and I never imagined this is where I’d be. Life has a funny way of twisting and turning, showing you a path you’d never have considered. When my marriage crumbled, I was desperate. I didn’t want to rely on my family, and selling tomatoes or going door-to-door offering my services didn't sit right with me. So, I did something bolder—I asked a friend who drives a keke to teach me. In two days, I passed the association’s exam.

Now, every day, I face the reality of this work. Police officers sometimes stop me, claiming I've broken one law or another, expecting a little something to let me pass. Some male passengers test my patience, thinking they can get away without paying. But each time, I set them straight. I might be small, but I’m fierce when it comes to what I’ve earned.

The challenges are many. I have to pay the keke union fees every day, whether I’ve had good business or not, and the cost of the keke itself—3,000 euros—is a mountain I’m still climbing. But there are moments of pride too. Older women stop to chat sometimes, telling me they’re glad to see a woman in this line of work. Some passengers say they feel safer with me at the wheel, that I drive with more care.

And maybe that’s why I keep going. It’s not just the money. It’s the independence, the respect I’ve fought for, and the safety I can offer in this chaotic city.